


Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos Loves Aramis, Athos Needs Aramis, Bromance, Brotherhood, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, It's all about the Athos Angst, Keeping the "Functional" in Front of "Alcoholic" Since 1625, Male Friendship, One Day Athos is Going to Kill Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Emilie,” Athos and Aramis have a few things to discuss</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I just wanted an excuse to write these two together. Because, again, the glorious, fucked-up mess that is their friendship is my kryptonite.

Athos sat hunched over a table in the garrison mess, as far from any window – and the bright, dagger-like sunlight pouring cruelly through all of them – as he could manage, elbows braced on the table to hold himself up, his throbbing head cradled in his hands. A cup of wine and a plate of bread and cheese sat before him, untouched, his churning stomach rebelling dangerously each time he so much as glanced at them. He’d spent last evening – well into last night, almost into this morning – with Tréville, trying to help the man through his hurt, rage and despair at having his command of the regiment taken from him by the King. By _Rochefort_. And _he_ had been trying to find his way through his anger and humiliation … and hurt … at learning that Anne was now the King’s mistress. 

He’d lost count of the number of bottles they’d emptied in their mutual quest for solace …

Booted steps against the floor announced the arrival of someone else into the mess, but he didn’t look up, certain no one would be foolish enough to intrude upon his suffering. Every man in the regiment had seen him like this often enough not to be surprised. They’d also seen him like this often enough to know better than to remark upon it, all too well aware of what a hangover did to his temper. 

“You look like hell.” 

_Almost_ everyone knew better than to remark upon it. 

He bit back a curse and lifted his head slightly, glaring at Aramis through eyes that felt as if they had been fired through a pistol barrel. “Gently,” he rasped in a soft yet lethal voice. 

Aramis had heard that voice and seen the sheer _misery_ etched in Athos’ haggard and ashen face too often _not_ to know the danger. Yet neither was he afraid. While he knew that a hung-over Athos could be a truly _vicious_ Athos, he also knew that committing murder simply required too much effort, and would inflict too much additional suffering upon him, for Athos to consider it worthwhile. _Usually._ The trick lay in knowing which lines not to cross. 

There was a reason Aramis had survived so many of these mornings, and it wasn’t entirely because of his charm. 

Still, he wasn’t completely without sympathy – he’d known his share of these “mornings after” and their unique agony often enough himself, though nowhere near as often as Athos; he doubted _anyone_ had known them _that_ often – and lightened his steps as best he could. Making his way to Athos’ table, he pulled out a chair, careful to lift it rather than simply dragging it across the floor, and held his sword as he sat down to prevent any clatter. 

“Thank you,” Athos breathed, truly grateful. He’d half expected Aramis to make as much noise as he could just to show his disapproval, and wasn’t certain he would have blamed him. They’d all thought he was well past this degree of wretched indulgence, himself included. 

Trust Anne – and Rochefort – to prove otherwise. 

“How is the Captain?” Aramis asked, pitching his voice low. 

Athos almost smiled, despite the hellish pounding in his skull. _The Captain._ Louis could decree whatever he damned well wanted, but Tréville would never be anything other than _the Captain_ to the men who loved him. 

“He was sleeping when I left him,” he answered. _After having been sick a number of times,_ he didn’t add. He started to reach for his cup, tempted to hazard a drink, but the memory of Tréville’s sickness only made the possibility of his own more imminent, so he dropped his hand back to the table, deciding he could wait. His head sank again into his other hand. 

Christ, what had he been thinking? 

“Someone’s out of practice,” Aramis practically crooned. 

“Don’t make me kill you,” Athos warned in a low snarl. 

“Are you going to eat that?” 

“Aramis, I swear to God–” 

“You shouldn’t swear,” Aramis chided primly. “And I was simply asking.” He reached across to the neglected plate in front of Athos and grabbed a thick piece of bread and a bit of cheese. “It’s a sin to waste food,” he said. 

“I hate you,” Athos breathed, his stomach heaving threateningly as Aramis ate. 

“I’m not the one to blame for your present state,” Aramis pointed out. He loved Athos, had spent endless nights worrying about and praying for him, but he was past coddling the man where his drinking was concerned. They’d been down this road too often for him to consider it anything other than what it was – a damnable weakness that would one day rob the world of a good man and his extraordinary gifts. 

Athos scowled, as much in irritation as in pain. “The Captain needed comfort–” 

“He needed it, or you did?” Aramis asked softly, studying his friend sadly. He knew how difficult these past few days had to have been on Athos. Seeing Tréville, who was as much a friend to him as a commander, brought low had to have hurt, yes. But then there had been Emilie, made dependent on a drug by her mother and forced to overcome that dependence … by Athos. 

_Athos will watch over you. He has some experience in these matters._

Aramis winced. _Some experience._ What a bloodless way of saying that Athos had been through that hell himself. Several times. Dear God, what must watching the girl suffer that have done to _him_? He’d done it because Aramis had asked, because he’d understood that it was the only way to end the threat of Emilie’s army. And because he’d known, in a way none of the rest of them possibly could, that it was ultimately best for Emilie. 

Yet even so– 

He tossed the bread back onto the plate before he choked on it. Christ, sometimes he hated this life. 

“None of this was your fault,” Athos said softly, knowing with instinctive certainty where Aramis’ thoughts had gone. Emilie’s deep and unquestioning, if simple, faith in God, her certainty that she was doing his will, had touched something in his friend, whose faith was just as deep but not at all simple, and who questioned his fidelity to God’s will constantly. “We all did what we had to do.” 

“And is that supposed to make it better?” Aramis asked bitterly, remembering the desolation he’d seen in Emilie’s eyes when she’d realized she no longer heard God speaking to her. Reason told him they’d done the right thing. It _hadn’t_ been God speaking to Emilie, it had been a drug, a cruel lie perpetrated by her mother, and that lie had threatened to do unspeakable harm. But Emilie had believed, had put all her faith in that voice, had found comfort and purpose in it. 

And they had taken that from her. Had taken it from a girl who had nothing else in this world. They had undoubtedly saved her life, saved _many_ lives, but at what cost? He tried to imagine how he would feel in her place. His faith was by no means perfect, he was by no means a saint. But he believed, he felt God’s presence in him, and he clung to it fiercely in his darkest moments. 

What would it do to _him_ to have all that suddenly ripped away? 

“What was the alternative?” Athos sighed, lifting his head to stare wearily at Aramis and wondering why in the bloody hell _he_ was the one having this conversation with him. At his _best_ , he was no one to offer words of wisdom or comfort in matters of faith, and he was nowhere near his best right now. Perhaps he no longer actively hated God or blamed him for the destruction of his world, but neither was he entirely prepared to forgive him for allowing it to happen. And recent events certainly weren’t helping. “How many lives should we have been prepared to sacrifice that she might be allowed to hold onto the _pretense_ of God?” 

Aramis flinched at that and bowed his head, staring down at his hands. He knew what the alternatives would have been, he didn’t need Athos to remind him. Countless unarmed innocents marching helplessly into a Spanish slaughterhouse. War with Spain that would have cost countless _more_ lives. And another damned bloody crusade laid at God’s feet when it had been none of his doing. He’d seen so-called “wars of religion,” had fought in them, knew just how much carnage could be wrought in the name of God. 

Emilie’s faith might have been precious to her, but surely it wasn’t worth _that_. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he breathed. “But I can’t help thinking that we betrayed her as cruelly as her mother. The God she believed was speaking to her might have been a lie, but it was a lie that gave her life some meaning. What gave us the right to take that away?”

Athos groaned and dropped his throbbing head back into his hands. Christ, why this? Why _now_? He could debate theology and philosophy as well as the next man, had been finely tutored in that very art in his youth by Jesuits, who were masters at it. But, goddamn it, his brain was trying to claw its way out of his skull and his stomach was doing obscene things. The only religious thought he was _remotely_ capable of entertaining right now was a prayer for a swift and merciful death. 

Which, of course, God was too much of a bastard to answer. He swallowed hard and lifted his head slightly, then decided to chance it and reached for his cup. 

With any luck, he’d get sick enough to pass out. 

He didn’t, and felt vaguely disappointed. The wine didn’t exactly go down easily, not at first, but a second and third sip seemed to help. Somewhat. He set the cup down and swallowed hard, breathing carefully in and out through his nose. Gradually, his stomach began to settle. Somewhat. 

Aramis leaned closer and studied him intently, frowning, taking in his ashen pallor and thoroughly disheveled appearance. His doublet, hat and weapons were nowhere in sight, probably still in Tréville’s office, and his shirt, almost certainly unchanged from yesterday, was unlaced, untucked, and stained with wine. At least, Aramis hoped it was wine. His thick hair, which tended to unruliness anyway, looked as if birds had been nesting in it. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked worriedly. 

Athos winced. Right now, he wasn’t certain he remembered what sleep was. “Tréville needed me,” he rasped, rubbing his gritty, aching eyes with less than steady fingers. “Believe it or not, he was in a far worse state than I. And because of my part in getting him into that state, I felt it was my duty to take care of him.” 

Aramis snorted softly and reached again for the bread. “You and your duty,” he chided fondly. “Here, eat this.” He held out the bread to Athos. “Soak up some of that wine souring in your stomach.” Athos stared at the bread as if it were a snake preparing to strike, and Aramis scowled. “ _Eat it_ ,” he ordered sternly. 

Athos took it grudgingly. He knew he needed it, but that never made it any easier. Or less likely to come back up. 

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Aramis asked softly, sadly, as Athos tore the bread into small bites and ate gingerly. He’d watched helplessly for years as his friend, his brother, inflicted this torment on himself, punished himself for sins he’d only revealed to them when his wife and Richelieu’s plot against the Queen had forced his hand. He’d gotten better after that, to all their relief, sinking less and less frequently into abject drunkenness, more easily able to bear the weight of his past. Yet his present state looked far too familiar for Aramis’ comfort, and he suspected it wasn’t only _Tréville’s_ distress that had sent Athos plunging back into the bottle. Again, the thought of what overseeing Emilie as her body purged itself of the drug must have done to Athos rose in Aramis’ mind, inflicting a terrible guilt upon him. “I am sorry,” he breathed. “I never should have asked you to watch over Emilie.”

“Who else was better suited to such a task?” Athos asked quietly, bitterly. “I knew what would happen, what to watch for, how best to ease her through the worst of it.”

“But it couldn’t have been easy upon you, and for that I am sorry.”

Athos swallowed against a surge of nausea that had nothing to do with his hangover. It had been nothing short of _hell_ watching the girl go through the agony he knew so intimately, but what choice had there been? And by far the worst part had been the small glances Constance had given him, her dawning understanding as to exactly why _he_ was tending Emilie instead of Aramis.

He hadn’t been prepared for how much the _pity_ in her eyes would hurt.

He swallowed again and forced a shrug. “It was my duty.”

Aramis smiled faintly. “There’s that word again,” he teased.

“Mock me if you wish,” Athos said flatly, “but it is all I have.”

Aramis felt another twinge of pain for his friend. “You know I would never mock you for that,” he said gently, wishing he knew the cause of this blackness that had fallen upon Athos and how he could lift it. “It is one of your most admirable traits, one that makes you the remarkable man you are. But your devotion to duty is not _all_ you have, you know. Or have you forgotten that you have friends, _brothers_ , who care about you and want only to see you happy and well?” He leaned closer. “You know you can always call upon us when you need us, Athos. We have no wish to see you fall back into the bottle because you are in pain.”

Athos looked sharply at him at those words, suddenly seized by a dark suspicion. Aramis spent every moment at the palace that he could, seized upon any reason, any excuse, that would put him near the Queen. He’d begun an affair with one of the Queen’s ladies just to be nearer her and the Dauphin. And where the Queen’s ladies were, so was there gossip. 

Did he know about Anne? Constance had known, so the other ladies must. Had Aramis’ latest conquest known and whispered it in his ear, as Constance had d’Artagnan’s? Was that why Aramis was looking at him now with such sympathy, such _pity_? Because he knew his friend’s goddamned treacherous _wife_ had added _royal mistress_ to her repertoire of humiliation? 

How could Aramis have _known_ and _not told him?_

Aramis watched the change come over Athos in confusion and no small alarm. Green eyes darkened and flashed with an anger that never boded well for anyone near, and the scarred mouth twisted into a vicious sneer. Long fingers, a swordsman’s fingers, tightened about and ruthlessly shredded the bread clutched in them, and a shudder of barely suppressed fury swept through Athos’ rigid frame. Aramis had seen all those signs before … usually just before someone died. 

“What is it?” he asked quietly, calmly, wanting to reach out to Athos but knowing better. People always considered Porthos the dangerous one, because of his size and appearance, or even him, because of his mercurial temperament. But Aramis knew better, knew there were few men on earth more truly dangerous than Athos in a rage. The man had the destructive capacity of a lightning storm in a dry forest. “Talk to me,” he pleaded softly, knotting his hands together on the table before him to keep from reaching out. 

“It would seem I have been missing out on the latest entertainment in Paris,” Athos said bitingly, throwing the ruined bread away from him and staring through burning eyes at Aramis. “Or perhaps I have simply grown too rigid in my ways to consider _sleeping with royalty_. But first you indulged, and now _my wife_. Tell me, _brother_ , what am I missing?” he hissed.

Aramis sucked in a hard, sharp breath, shocked to his soul. Not since the convent had Athos spoken so bluntly, so _furiously_ , of his transgression, had the man allowed himself to put Aramis’ sin, his _crime_ , into words. Cold terror struck at him, and he looked around instinctively to make sure they were still alone, that none had overheard. Only gradually, once his panic had begun to abate, did he, _could_ he, fully understand the _rest_ of Athos’ words, and the ones that truly explained his rage. His _pain_. 

_And now my wife …_

Understanding slammed upon him with a heavy force, tearing a ragged gasp from him. Snatches of gossip he’d heard while in the Louvre began to make a terrible sense. The King had a mistress. He’d heard the whispers among the Queen’s ladies, had heard references to some lady. But only now, in the wake of Athos’ scathing words, did he truly understand what he’d been hearing all that time. 

Not “lady,” but _Milady_. 

The King’s mistress was Athos’ wife. 

“My God,” he whispered strickenly, fear for himself swept away by pain and sympathy for his friend. 

He wouldn’t pretend to understand Milady and what drove her in her actions, but he knew _Athos_ , knew the honor and sheer _nobility_ at the man’s core that had nothing to do with his birthright, and could imagine only too well the shame, the utter _humiliation_ , that must now be clawing at him. Gossip was a way of life at the palace; courtiers rose and fell in favor by the power of rumor and innuendo. Consequently, they were driven by the need to unearth every detail they could about a potential rival, or a potential ally. And what more dangerous rival or more powerful ally could anyone have than the royal mistress? How long would it be before the truth of Milady’s identity became known? How long before someone, _anyone_ , discovered that Milady de Winter was, in fact, the Comtesse de la Fère? How long would it be before someone, _anyone_ , discovered that her husband, the Comte de la Fère, was, in fact, the Musketeer Athos, already known by so many as the unsmiling soldier who stood such devoted watch over the King?

How long before Athos’ private shame became the very public entertainment of that shallow, selfish and cruel court? 

Aramis truly feared he would be sick.

Something in his expression, in the absolute _horror_ in his eyes and face, reached Athos and tore a harsh gasp from him. His rage faded abruptly and he slumped forward, dropping his head into a trembling hand. “You didn’t know,” he whispered, hating himself now for the hateful words he’d spat at his friend. His brother. “You truly didn’t know.”

“I didn’t,” Aramis rasped, still staring at him in horror, still feeling perilously near sickness. “I swear to you, I didn’t. My God, Athos–”

“I am sorry,” he said softly, lifting his head again to meet his brother’s eyes. He owed him that at least. “I should not have … spoken to you so, said those … _things_.” He winced at his own cruelty, his own _thoughtlessness_. Had anyone else been present, had anyone else overheard the words he’d thrown in Aramis’ face–

“It’s all right,” Aramis said quietly, reaching out to lay a hand over Athos’. “Believe me, I know how she tears you up inside. And for her to– to–” He couldn’t say it, not with Athos looking so _wounded_. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, add another twist of the knife. “I am so sorry. What will you do?”

“What can I do?” he asked bitterly. “She is the King’s mistress, and so beyond my reach. And because it is my duty to protect him, it will almost certainly become my duty to protect _her_.” His mouth twisted into a thin, hard line as anger rose within him. “I can only imagine what amusement she will find in _that_.”

Aramis ached for him. He knew his own love life was not particularly pretty, and certainly not always something to be proud of, but at least there wasn’t such a history of hatred, of malice, of sheer _cruelty_ , in his affairs that existed in Athos’ history with his wife. The man deserved so much better, had almost found it once with Ninon de Larroque–

Until Milady had played her part in destroying that, as well.

Merciful Jesus.

“Just when I think she is done with me,” Athos rasped, “when I think there is nothing more she can do to me, she must find some new way to torment me.” He sat back in his chair and stared at Aramis through raw, haunted eyes, his whole body slumping in misery. “Why?” he whispered, sounding – _feeling_ – utterly lost. “What have I done to deserve this?”

Aramis leaned forward and took both of Athos’ hands in his, holding tightly to them. “Nothing,” he said firmly, fiercely, hating this brokenness in so strong and _good_ a man, and coming very near hating the woman who caused it. “None of this is your doing, Athos,” he insisted, gazing into those anguished eyes and willing his friend to believe him. “None of this is your fault! You are not responsible for what she does–”

“Am I not?” he asked dully, haunted now by all the times and ways he had failed to rid himself, and everyone around him, of her malignant presence. “Had I carried out my responsibility to hang her in la Fère, or had I never hanged her at all but handed her over to a magistrate, had I killed her when I had her at the point of my sword or told the King who she was and what she had done when she reappeared at his side, or had I never married her at all–”

“You loved her,” Aramis reminded him. “What else were you to do?”

“ _I could have done as my father wanted!_ ” he shouted, tearing his hands free and shooting to his feet, furious at his own stupidity, his own _selfishness_. “I could have stayed true to _generations_ of tradition and upheld my _duty_ to my family, honoring my father’s wisdom by marrying as _he_ had intended for me–”

“You could have,” Aramis agreed solemnly. He knew marriages among the nobility were carefully arranged, with matches made to improve status or to increase wealth, and he had no doubt that Athos – dutiful, noble, _sensible_ Athos – would have found a way to make his peace with such an arrangement. “But would you have been _happy_?”

Athos stared at him for long moments in outright disbelief, then collapsed back into his chair, unable any longer to deny the demands of his hangover. “Oh, yes,” he sneered, “because marrying _her_ has brought me such delight!”

Aramis winced and shook his head. “I will admit,” he said ruefully, “it has perhaps not been one of the great romances of the ages.”

Athos loosed a soft, helpless chuff of laughter at that and slumped forward, folding his arms upon the table and dropping his throbbing head onto them. “I hate you,” he sighed.

Aramis leaned forward and reached out, carding long fingers gently through his friend’s thick, unkempt hair. “You’ve said that already.”

“Still true,” Athos muttered, relaxing beneath those caressing fingers.

“Of course it is,” Aramis agreed, working his hand down to massage Athos’ neck at the base of his skull. “Everyone knows it.”

“Bastard,” he moaned as those fingers blunted some of the stabbing ache in his head.

“Now, Athos,” Aramis chided, smiling slightly as he managed to bring his friend some relief, “we’ve had this discussion. My parents were properly married before I was born. I am entirely legitimate.”

The careless comment sparked a sudden thought, a sudden _fear_ , in Athos, and he raised his head abruptly, spearing Aramis with a worried stare. “Be careful,” he warned softly, reaching up to grab Aramis’ wrist and holding tightly. “Anne misses nothing. If she so much as _suspects_ the truth of your relationship with … _them_ ,” he couldn’t bring himself to say _the Queen and the Dauphin_ even though he knew they were alone, “she will not hesitate to use it against you.” He ignored his protesting head and stomach and sat upright, still gripping Aramis’ arm. “Promise me you will be careful.”

“Athos–”

“ _Promise me!_ ” he demanded harshly, digging his fingers into his friend’s wrist and almost choking upon his fear. He knew Anne – _God_ , how he knew her! – and could imagine with what malicious _glee_ she would use such a weapon.

Aramis gently freed his wrist from his friend’s iron grip and stared into those burning green eyes, willing calm and sanity upon Athos. “Why would she?” he asked quietly, folding his hands around his brother’s. “What would she have to gain? As the King’s … mistress,” he winced at the word, at the _hurt_ it had to inflict upon Athos, “she has everything she could possibly want. She will have riches, position, power, and an influence over him equal to that of the Queen. What more could she possibly want?”

“You don’t know Anne,” Athos rasped. “Nothing is _ever_ enough for her. And if she sees any way to benefit from exposing your … _secret_ … she will not hesitate. Just, _please_ ,” he gripped Aramis’ hand tightly, desperately, “promise me you will be careful!”

Aramis smiled. “I will be careful, I promise,” he said easily. “You have nothing to worry about. You know me.”

Athos swallowed hard. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He _did_ know Aramis, all too well. He had no doubt the man was utterly sincere in giving his word; he also had no doubt he would inevitably _break_ it. Aramis loved too deeply, too fiercely, was too much a slave to his own heart, his own passions. And Anne was a master spy, had been tutored in that craft by no less than Richelieu himself.

But she wasn’t the only threat. Rochefort was there, and always on the prowl. And there were countless others, with reasons political and personal to cause trouble. What better weapon could they wield than an affair? When the King took a lover, it was entertainment. When the Queen took a lover, it was _treason_.

For her, _and_ her lover.

He groaned and dropped his head back down onto his arm. “Of course, I have to worry about you,” he growled. “You haven’t the sense to do it for yourself.”

Aramis smiled and reached out, once more sinking his fingers into Athos’ hair and massaging expertly. “Says the man face down on the table because he’s drunk himself stupid again.”

Athos had no answer to that.

Aramis could feel his friend relaxing beneath his hand. “Shall I help you to your bed before you pass out here?”

“Still hate you,” Athos murmured.

“Is that a yes?”

Athos turned his head just enough to glare weakly up at his friend. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Aramis’ smile, and his humor, faded. “Not at all,” he said quietly. “I never enjoy seeing you in pain. And I hate seeing you punishing yourself because of _her_. She’s not worth it, you know. And you don’t deserve this.”

“Did God tell you that?” Athos asked bitingly.

Aramis flinched. “I don’t mock you for your love of duty,” he said quietly. “Don’t mock me for my love of God. He is as precious to me as duty and honor are to you.”

Athos was instantly ashamed. He knew what God meant to Aramis. In truth, he often envied the man’s deep faith, which not even the horrors of Savoy had shaken. He forced himself to sit up and reached out, closing his hand over Aramis’. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, sincerely. “That was cruel, and I had no right to say it.” He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “No matter how she torments me, I have no right to take it out on you. Forgive me?”

“You know I do,” Aramis assured him at once. “Now, will you let me help you to bed? You need to sleep, and not on this table.”

“Tréville–”

“I will look in on him, I promise.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I will even do his paperwork, if that will get you to rest.”

A small, fond grin tugged at one corner of Athos’ mouth. “As entertaining as the thought of _you_ writing a formal report is,” his grin widened at Aramis’ hurt look, “there is no need. I already took care of it.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, easily able to imagine Athos further torturing himself by laboring over assignment details and supply requests through a vicious hangover. The man could give lessons in penance to any monk. “Of course you did. What was I thinking?” He got to his feet and went to stand behind Athos, clasping a hand around his arm. “Then there is nothing to keep you from sleeping. Up you go.”

Athos let Aramis help him to his feet and reeled heavily against him when a wave of dizziness hit him. “Christ,” he groaned as his stomach lurched threateningly.

“Don’t blame him,” Aramis chided. “This is all your own doing.” He held tightly to Athos as the man struggled to find and keep his balance. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he said gently. “I won’t let you fall.”

Athos leaned against his brother, taking comfort from Aramis’ strength and solidness against him, and let his aching head drop against Aramis’ shoulder. “I know,” he breathed. And he did. Aramis and the others had held him up through far worse than this. Their unfailing hold on him had become the only constant in his world.

But he wasn’t the only one on treacherous ground here. Anne was in the palace. Rochefort was on the prowl, and on the rise. The two of them, eager to consolidate their positions and increase their power, would be watching eagerly, greedily, for any means to do so, and neither missed _anything_.

And a Musketeer bedding the Queen and fathering her son would provide them a veritable feast.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to raise his head, staring as steadily as he could into his brother’s eyes. “I won’t let you fall, either,” he vowed solemnly.

Aramis smiled warmly, years of friendship lending him immediate understanding of Athos’ words. “I have never thought you would,” he said softly. “My faith is not only in God, you know. Now,” he studied Athos’ haggard face and winced, “let’s get you to bed. My head hurts just looking at you.”

Athos cast him a bleary-eyed glare, but couldn’t summon up the the will or wit to make a retort. Aramis fairly beamed in victory as he guided Athos out of the mess.

True to his word, though, he never once let his brother fall.

_The End_


End file.
